


Future Image

by Atisenia



Series: Angsty Prompts Turned Into Fluff [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-31 00:21:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6447937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atisenia/pseuds/Atisenia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a time traveller tied to a chair in their living room and he brought some photos that Sherlock doesn't want John to see. </p><p>There might also be an apocalypse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Future Image

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NothingSerious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NothingSerious/gifts).



> This story has been written for a sort of a giveaway I did when I reached 100 followers on Tumblr. I decided to make it fun and challenging at the same time, so I took [this list of angsty prompts](http://atisenia.tumblr.com/post/137628190345/but-what-about-angsty-otp-aus) and decided to turn them into funny fluffy stories. I wrote this one for this prompt: "so i guess some guy from the future came and he told me that you’re responsible for the apocalypse and if there’s any hope for humanity it rests on me and i have to kill you please don’t hate me for this” au
> 
> I hope you find it enjoyable!^^

 

John dragged his uncooperative body downstairs, rubbing at his eyes and watching his step. It was entirely too early for him to be awake, and he would rather not start the day with a broken neck, thank you very much. After all those years, he wasn’t even surprised that he’d been woken up at half four in the morning by strange noises in 221B. It was probably just Sherlock pouring acid on the telly or sawing off the table legs. No big deal.

He missed the last step and cursed under his breath, then nearly collided with the doorframe. He shot the doorframe an angry look and stepped into the living room. He looked around and paused mid-yawn when he located the source of the disturbance.

It wasn’t acid.

There was a funny looking man in the living room. He looked vaguely familiar in a way that John’s sleep deprived brain couldn’t place.

He was also tied to The Client Chair with pieces of duct tape. Sherlock stood next to him and had a gun that was not John’s gun pointed at the man’s head.

John blinked and then finally closed his mouth.

"Huh," he said. "Busy night, was it?"

Both Sherlock and the stranger turned to look at him.

“John,” Sherlock said. His face went through a myriad of expressions too fast for John to follow.

“You!” the stranger called angrily and spat in John’s direction. Sherlock’s face settled on a glare. “You monster! Devil’s spawn! Son of a mfbbffm...”

He didn’t get the chance to finish because Sherlock put another piece of duct tape over his mouth.

John blinked again and frowned.

“Right,” he said and watched the man struggle, and decided he wasn’t awake enough for this situation. “Right. Coffee?”

"Please," Sherlock said, still glaring daggers at the stranger.

John watched them for a while and then dragged himself to the kitchen. He tripped over the threshold, impaled his hip on the corner of the kitchen table and unleashed a string of curses in three different languages while he limped to the fridge. There he found just enough milk to make his coffee dark brown instead of black and he grumbled all the way to the counter where he left the milk and set the coffee to brew.

He dozed off while holding a mug, which turned out to be rather unfortunate. The mug was thankfully empty, but it still hurt like hell when it hit John’s bare foot on its way down. Then it landed on the floor without breaking. John picked it up and glared at it, fighting the urge to hurl it at the wall. They only had two mugs that were not contaminated with strange substances though and getting rid of one of them was probably a bad idea.

He made Sherlock’s coffee in it.

When he came back to the living room, the stranger was still there, still glaring. And so was Sherlock. He looked like he hadn't moved a muscle, not even to blink.

John pushed the evil mug into Sherlock’s hands and went to sit in his armchair.

"So what’s going on?" he asked after half of his coffee was gone and no one deigned to explain the situation. “Who is he? A burglar? A murderer? An annoying client?”

John thought his last remark would at least make Sherlock smirk, but it didn’t happen. Sherlock continued his glaring; in fact, the glaring seemed to intensify. John frowned.

"Sherlock? What is it?" he asked, a little worried now.

Sherlock finally decided to move. He pursed his lips and glared at the mug in his hand, and then marched to the desk and put it there with enough force to spill most of the coffee. Then he started pacing the room, waving the gun around. He had clearly deleted John's lectures about gun safety.

"Just... stop that!" John said and took the gun away from Sherlock's unresisting hand. "What has gotten into you? Who is he?"

Sherlock grimaced, but finally looked at him.

"He's a time traveller," he said.

John started laughing, convinced Sherlock would soon join him and explain the joke to him. But he didn't, so John's laughter died as quickly and suddenly as it started.

"What, seriously?" John asked, raising his eyebrows. "Time travel? That's impossible!"

"Apparently not,” Sherlock said and sent another glare in the man’s direction. "I don't think he has permission to be here."

John snorted and looked at the stranger.

"He certainly didn't make any effort to blend in," he said. "What's with the clothes, mate?" The man muttered something behind the tape and glared at John. "Are you sure he's not just playing dress up?" John asked, looking back up at Sherlock.

Sherlock huffed and a small smile danced across his lips. John followed the curve of it and wished he could kiss it.

He smiled back instead.

“The clothes he’s wearing are indeed appalling,” Sherlock said with a nod in John’s direction. “But they are also made of some kind of synthetic material that I have never seen before. He’s in possession of technology much more advanced than what we have at our disposal and also money and documents with future dates.”

“Could be fake,” John pointed out. “I bet you could make all those things look authentic.”

Sherlock preened under John’s praise for a moment, but grew uneasy fairly quickly.

“He... um... he also seems to know things,” he said and fidgeted. “About... us.”

"What things?" John asked, looking at the strange man who seemed to be biting at the duct tape now. His muffled muttering increased in volume, and his glaring, especially at John, intensified.

"Just things," Sherlock said. "A significant amount of gathered trivia."

"Right," John drawled, stretching the 'i' into the space of five different words. “And how can you be sure he’s not lying?”

Sherlock cleared his throat.

“He... uh... he also has photos,” he said.

"All right," John said, looking from their angry guest to an unusually agitated Sherlock with a frown. "And you're sure they're not manipulated?"

"John..." Sherlock said and gave John a look that meant 'I have already thought about it and discarded it a century ago'. Sherlock's face shaped itself into a grimace that looked rather uncomfortable.

"Right. Fine. Just checking," John said with a shrug. "Can I see those photos?"

"No!"

"Sherlock—"

"I said no!"

John glared at him, but it was a sleepy glare that probably had very little effect on Sherlock. John rather thought that finding a time traveller in his living room should be exciting enough to wake him up, but apparently not. It was probably a side effect of unusual situations turning into everyday occurrences.

"Okay, what is this all about then?" John asked, crossing his arms. "Why is he here?"

"Oh, that!” Sherlock said and waved his hand dismissively. “He came to tell me you're going to cause the end of the world and I should kill you before that happens,"

Well then. _That_ managed to wake John up quite nicely.

“Oh. Right,” he said. His voice sounded distant even to his own ears. Probably because of the blood pumping loudly in his veins. “And... you’re...”

Sherlock sighed heavily and turned to face him.

“ _John_ ,” he said pointedly.

“What? You just said he’s the real deal!”

John crossed his arms and looked at Sherlock with a frown. Of course Sherlock was going to be difficult about it. It wasn’t like he’d just told John he might be responsible for the apocalypse or anything.

“Like I’m going to listen to Moriarty’s spawn,” Sherlock said and rolled his eyes.

“Right,” John said, a weight he had not been aware of lifting from his shoulders. “Wait, what?”

“Oh, haven’t I mentioned?” Sherlock said nonchalantly. He knew damn well that he hadn’t mentioned it. “He’s Moriarty’s grandson.”

“You mean Moriarty actually managed to reproduce?” John grimaced and then shuddered, banishing the thought from his mind as far away as it could go.

“Apparently,” Sherlock said and he also looked and sounded pained.

John hummed and looked at the man with that new information in mind. Now that he looked for it, he could see Moriarty in the line of the man’s eyebrows. His eyes were equally dark and perhaps a little mad.

“Seriously though? Grandson?” John said, turning back to Sherlock.

“Yes. His name is also James.” Sherlock winced. “And he intends to finish what his grandfather started.”

“Huh.” John frowned. “I heard that one in a movie,” he muttered.

The man narrowed his eyes at John and let out a series of sounds that were probably meant to be words. Swear words, judging by the angry arch of his eyebrows.

“Okay, so what’s the problem?” John asked and looked at Sherlock.

“Problem?” Sherlock echoed nonchalantly.

John gave him a _look_.

"Well, you say you're not going to kill me, but you're all..." John trailed off and waved a hand in Sherlock’s general direction.

"All what?" Sherlock snapped, but didn’t look at John.

"Fidgety," John said, for lack of a better word, and ignored Sherlock's dramatically offended expression. "So what's going on?"

"Nothing!" Sherlock said quickly and grimaced. It would seem that even to his own ears it didn't sound particularly convincing.

John raised his brows and gave Sherlock a knowing look.

"Try that again?"

Sherlock scoffed, then rolled his eyes, then groaned.

"Well, John, you are mistaken, as you so often are," Sherlock said and waved his hand dismissively. The fact that it was shaking destroyed the effect somewhat. Sherlock glared at his hand, while John was more than content to glare at Sherlock. "Anyway, you don't need to worry about him anymore. Mycroft's people will be coming to pick him up soon, I'm sure."

The chair Moriarty Junior was tied to protested pitifully when the man sitting on it started squirming. Sherlock sighed and sent their captive a withering look. When that didn't stop the man's attempts to free himself, Sherlock sighed again, this time much more dramatically.

"For God’s sakes!" he muttered.

John frowned. While Sherlock’s earlier nonchalance was clearly affected, he seemed to genuinely treat Moriarty Junior like a harmless moron. John didn’t think he was faking that. Yet there was still tension in the line of Sherlock’s shoulders and a nervous energy surrounded him. If it wasn’t directly tied to the threat of Moriarty, then what could it be about? Was it something Moriarty had said about the future?

Something about them?

"The photos!" John said with a spark of realisation.

Sherlock froze for a second before consciously making himself relax.

"What," he said so flatly that it didn't sound like a question.

"You said he brought some photos. I want to see them!"

Sherlock's jaw worked for a while.

"What is this new nonsense, John?" he asked.

John narrowed his eyes at him.

"Show me the photos, Sherlock!" he demanded.

Sherlock frowned and opened his mouth to say something, but changed his mind. He closed his mouth, swallowed, and tried again.

"You don't know what you're asking for," he said and looked at John imploringly.

John clenched his jaw and squared his shoulders. It was true; he didn't know what was in those photos. But if it had managed to shake Sherlock Holmes, of all people, he needed to see them.

"The pictures, Sherlock," he insisted. "Now!"

Sherlock shook his head.

"No."

John sniffed. Well then. If he wanted to play that game, then fine. John would oblige him.

He glared at Sherlock who very deliberately didn't change his posture even one bit. There would be no accidental slip-ups with Sherlock. No nervous glances in the direction of the photos. He was too good for that and John was not in the mood to orchestrate a fire alarm. He was half-certain that Sherlock would let the photos burn anyway.

He could have hidden them anywhere. Sherlock could find ways to hide things that John would never think about. But. He wouldn't have had time for that, would he? Preoccupied as he'd been with their tied up guest, and then with John in the room, he wouldn't have had time to hide them properly.

So where would he put them?

He could still have them with him, hidden in some secret pocket of his dressing gown or behind the waistband of his pyjama bottoms. John could wrestle them out of him (and wasn't that a dangerously tempting mental image?). Somehow though, John didn't think Sherlock still had them on him. He was too tightly wound, as if itching to snatch the photos from under John's nose.

Sherlock might call John unobservant much more frequently than John would prefer, but he knew that John did notice things, especially when he was looking for them. So. Hidden in plain sight. Somewhere that John's eyes wouldn't linger on. That he would just dismiss, wouldn't even think about. They could be somewhere among the detritus on the desk, but John could come by them even by accident.

A place, then, where John wouldn’t have a reason to look.

His eyes opened wide with realisation when he saw the music stand. There was definitely something under the sheet music. He cursed his overly expressive face when he registered Sherlock diving for the stand a split second later. John was closer to it, but Sherlock was faster. They collided with each other and tumbled to the floor in a tangle of limbs.

"Get off me, John!" Sherlock exclaimed, trying to free his left leg from under John's right knee.

"I see no problem with that," John told him, swatting at Sherlock's fingers that were poking him in the ribs. Right where Sherlock knew he was tickly. The bastard. "If you let me see the photos."

"You are not ready to see them!" Sherlock protested and tried to squirm his way out of John's grip.

"I think I'm old enough to decide that for myself, Sherlock Holmes!" John said, a bit breathless.

"Mnnnhhmmm!" came a muffled voice from the chair.

"Shut up!" both John and Sherlock called.

The moment of distraction worked in John’s favour. He wriggled out of Sherlock’s grip and grabbed the contents of the music stand. He threw the sheet music in Sherlock’s face, which was met with a dramatic gasp of betrayal, and turned the pictures in his hands, expecting to see a total destruction of the world and John in the middle of it...

... getting married?

John blinked at the photo. And then blinked again. And again. There were more pictures in the bunch and they could very possibly contain all the horrible things he’d imagined, but he couldn’t stop staring at this one.

Why would a photo of John getting married be relevant to Moriarty Junior's cause? Was Mary somehow involved in this?

But no, it wasn't his wedding to Mary. The clothes and the setting were all different, there was Harry standing proudly with a smug expression to John's right and Mycroft standing next to Sherlock, who was sporting the biggest smile John had ever seen and...

John gasped and dropped the pictures, and then turned to stare at Sherlock with eyes and mouth wide open.

"It's—" he croaked and had to clear his throat. "It's our wedding, isn't it?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, as if pained, and sighed from where John left him on the floor. He nodded sharply.

"But— I don't—" John couldn't quite articulate all the things he was feeling at the moment. The joy at seeing their fingers laced together in the photo. The disbelief that Sherlock could really want that too. The worry that by seeing the photo he somehow jinxed it and now it would never happen.

“I know, John,” Sherlock said and put some distance between them. John’s heart sank. “I know you don’t— I don’t know how this could happen for us when...” He waved a hand in John’s direction. Like that explained anything. “But I thought... if you didn’t see it... I thought perhaps it could still happen.”

John gaped at him, unable to utter a single word. He couldn’t move. He could barely breathe, afraid this would all turn out to be a dream.

Sherlock took his silence the wrong way. He visibly steeled himself and stood up.

“I understand that this is not something you want,” he said flatly. “I would appreciate it if we could just... ignore...”

John burst out laughing and Sherlock trailed off with a frown. Despite his newly raised walls, he looked hurt by John’s reaction and John hurried to rectify that.

“You’re an idiot!” John told him before standing up. Which, on second thought, might not have been the best thing to say, seeing as Sherlock’s frown deepened and his mouth twisted unhappily. “You’re mad if you think, even for one second, that I don’t want you!”

Sherlock blinked at him and then inhaled loudly.

“ _John_ ,” he breathed.

That was enough talking for John. He crossed the distance between them in a heartbeat and looked Sherlock in the eye.

"May I?" he whispered, his eyes straying to those tantalising lips before looking back up.

"Please," Sherlock said, a little breathless.

John smiled at him and put a hand on the back of Sherlock's neck. He played with the soft curls there and traced the line of Sherlock's jaw with his thumb, barely able to believe that he was finally allowed to do that. He put the other hand on Sherlock's hip and used it to bring him closer. Sherlock's breath caught and he grabbed tightly at John's shoulders.

They stood like that for a while, just looking at each other. Then Sherlock brought their foreheads together and closed his eyes. He cupped John's face in his hands and leaned in to close the gap between them.

Their noses bumped and John giggled. Sherlock straightened up, looking offended, but John didn't let him go far. He pulled at Sherlock's dressing gown, stood on his tiptoes and kissed him. It was just a quick, chaste touch of their lips, and when John leaned back, Sherlock’s eyes were closed and his mouth was slightly open.

"Breathe, Sherlock," John told him gently.

Sherlock immediately drew in a huge breath and opened his eyes.

"John," he said, his voice echoing John's wonder.

"I know," John said and smiled at him.

Sherlock’s responding smile was radiant, but John only got a glimpse of it before Sherlock leaned in for another kiss. This time, it lasted much longer. It started soft and hesitant, with only the gentlest brushes of lips, but then they both grew bolder and closer, and more vocal. John gasped when Sherlock gently nibbled on his bottom lip and was about to return the favour, when someone pointedly cleared his throat by the entrance to the flat.

Both John and Sherlock groaned and turned to glare at Mycroft.

"Go away!" Sherlock said and John agreed.

"Believe me, Brother, I have no interest whatsoever in watching you," he paused for a second before continuing, "exchange fluids with your doctor." Sherlock bristled and John squeezed his hips in warning. "However, I am here on business."

Mycroft looked at Moriarty Junior, who glared back at him. John nearly forgot about him.

"Yes, well, take him and get out," Sherlock said.

Mycroft grimaced mildly, as if he couldn’t even fully commit to his disapproval, and summoned his minions, who untied Moriarty Junior from the chair and restrained him properly for the transportation. The man glared at John through the whole process. John raised his eyebrows and waved when Moriarty Junior was leaving the flat surrounded by trained operatives. Mycroft rolled his eyes at that, which only made John feel more giddy.

“Doctor Watson, a word?” Mycroft said.

And they were back to official titles. Lovely. Never a good sign.

“That’s not necessary!” Sherlock protested and tightened his grip on John’s hips.

“It’s fine,” John told him. “Better see what he wants now than have him interrupt later.”

He sent Sherlock a cheeky half-smile and a meaningful look that was sure to irritate Mycroft. Sherlock blushed prettily and John was mesmerised by the sight for exactly half a second it took Sherlock to lean in and kiss him soundly.

“Oh, for the love of...” John heard Mycroft’s annoyed sigh and smiled into the kiss before leaning back.

“Hold that thought,” he said.

He jogged to where Mycroft stood emitting an air of disapproval.

“I trust you know what you’re doing,” Mycroft said and pursed his lips.

John raised his eyebrows at him.

“Seriously?” he asked. “Are we really going to have this conversation?”

Mycroft’s phone vibrated and he took it out of his pocket to look at it. Whatever he saw there had him grimacing in displeasure and glaring at Sherlock. John looked back over his shoulder and sent Sherlock an amused glance.

“Do you not think it’s necessary, Doctor Watson?” Mycroft said sharply, bringing John’s attention back to him.

“Not really,” John said, a little bit annoyed. His lips were still tingling from the kiss and he would like to get back to that, thank you very much. “I get it. I hurt your brother, you make sure my body’s never found.”

Mycroft’s phone vibrated again. This time he ignored it in favour of simply glaring at Sherlock. John tried very hard not to smirk.

“I wasn’t going to be so barbaric,” Mycroft said, as if it physically pained him to do so.

“No? I thought for sure you’d let your minions turn me into plant food. Possibly glowing in the dark.”

Another text arrived. Mycroft looked up, as if asking for patience, and John gave Sherlock the thumbs up behind his back.

“Must you be so crude?” Mycroft asked and grimaced.

“You’re the one who wanted to have this conversation,” John reminded him. “I was very happy back there.”

“I only intended to ask you to take care of my brother. I do worry about him.”

That caused an avalanche of text messages and annoyed huffing in the background.

“I will,” John said simply, and meant it with every fibre of his being.

Mycroft inclined his head in silent thanks and finally left their flat. As soon as the front door closed, John was hit by an armful of amorous consulting detective. They picked up right where they’d left it, and the kiss quickly became open-mouthed and intense. Finally, they broke apart to catch their breaths, but neither of them was inclined to let go of the other. John’s hands migrated down onto Sherlock’s arse, and Sherlock kissed John’s forehead, then nose, then jaw.

“He is not invited to the wedding,” Sherlock said, his voice deliciously low.

“Mm, so there’s going to be a wedding, is there?” John said, a bit out of breath.

Sherlock immediately stopped nibbling on John’s earlobe and tensed under John’s hands.

“Which is of course not something you’d want,” Sherlock said and tried to extricate himself from John’s embrace. John didn’t let him go far.

“Hey, no!” he said. “That’s not what I meant! Of course I want that! _Of course_!" He cupped Sherlock's face and forced him to look him in the eye. "How about that, mm?"

Sherlock looked at him for a long while, but whatever he saw in John's face must have reassured him. He relaxed and waved a hand with affected nonchalance.

"We might as well," he said. "After all, we already have a wedding photo."

John beamed at him and Sherlock tried to kiss him through it, but he was smiling too much himself, so they just stood in the middle of the living room, breathing each other's air.

"About that," John finally said. "The picture? If I wanted to convince someone to kill their friend, I would probably avoid showing them wedding photos. But maybe that's just me."

"It's not just you," Sherlock said with a grimace. "He's a moron."

"You, on the other hand," John said and kissed the corner of Sherlock's mouth, "are very smart."

"I am," Sherlock said and squeezed John's arms when John put his mouth to good use on Sherlock's long neck. "John!"

"Yeah, you're brilliant," John said and trailed a line of kisses up to Sherlock's jaw. "Figured out his plan like that. Very clever." Sherlock gasped when John nibbled on his earlobe. "Any more clever ideas?" he asked, directly into Sherlock's ear, and felt proud of himself when Sherlock shivered.

" _Yes_ ," Sherlock said and dragged John into his bedroom.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to squeeze another bit into the story, but it just... wouldn't fit anywhere. I might as well tell you all about it here.  
> At some point, John goes to stand by Moriarty Junior and looks at him until he gets his attention. Which doesn't take long, because MJ is set on glaring whenever he gets the chance. So John asks:
> 
> "If you're really from the future, can you tell me who wins the Rugby World Cup next year? It's time for England to bloody win!"
> 
> He peels off the tape and Moriarty spits at him. He places the tape back in place and wipes the spit with a grimace.
> 
> “I guess it’s Scotland then,” he says.


End file.
